


i wanna ruin our friendship

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: F/F, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:17:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re fourteen the first time you realize you’re in love with your best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wanna ruin our friendship

**Author's Note:**

> The whole thing is from Bebe's point of view.

You’re fourteen the first time you realize you’re in love with your best friend.

You’ve always known you weren’t straight, but something about the fact that it’s _her_ hits you hard. It’s like nothing you’ve ever thought you’ve known was real, and you’re strangely drawn to that one Alice in Wonderland quote about having a world of opposites.

Suddenly every friendly touch you share seems intimate, and you wonder if she feels the same way, or if she always has, or if she ever will. But you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter either way.

Because she switches between boyfriends the same way you switch between shoes, way too fast than is probably good for you and at the same time only for the promise of something ‘better’. You privately think that you’re both just trying to fill a hole that can never be full.

And you think about that a lot too, how she seems to bounce between Token and Stan and any new boy who moves to town, never satisfied for a long period of time with any of them. But in the end it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that you haven’t dated anyone since the fifth grade and even that didn’t count, because when you found out why you felt okay with dating Clyde, and it really wasn’t just about the shoes, you feel sick for none of the reasons he thinks you do. And you want to throw up the last two years and apologize because he’s a boy dammit, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before you’re the one who makes him think less of himself because of who you are.

It also doesn’t matter that while she found herself a place on the football team to channel her anger you found yourself a place on the couch, playing Xbox and eating pizza until you’ve beaten the only three games you own too many times to count and your body is softer than you remember it being. It doesn’t matter because she wouldn’t look at you that way even if you were a supermodel.

So you’re fourteen and you realize you’re in love with your best friend, what do you do? You hide it.

Until you’re sixteen and she runs off with another new boy, one who you know will break her heart, and you may feel guilty when you don’t even try to warn her, but it’s overshadowed by the fact that you don’t want to look desperate.

At some point you noticed she’s privately changed her status on Facebook to “Interested In: men and women” you wonder if she’s seen yours, locked in at just women for the last couple of years. It wouldn’t matter if she did.

When you’re sixteen and the boy finally does break her heart it’s the same week your Facebook profile gets shut down. You make a new one and hesitate before deciding if you’ll add her or not.

You don’t.

She sends you a message, and you pretend not to know why she’s sending it, and why it sounds so cryptic.

You foolishly wish that she’ll magically know how to fix everything. You foolishly wish that she’ll fight harder than you to get back what you once had.

You can’t decide if you’re a bad person or not for wanting her heart to break and pour out onto the keyboard like yours has a thousand times before, over her. A small part of you thinks that maybe it already has, but just like you the backspace is her savior.

It hits you hard when it finally comes.

It’s about two paragraphs long in her perfect grammar and spelling, but it’s not as well collected as her usual writing, it’s like she had to fight with herself by writing and sending it as fast as possible so she wouldn’t lose her nerve.

Each line is dripping with regret, she tells you about her all-consuming jealousy, about how she pushed you away because of it, and she promises that she’ll never do it again if you forgive her for it. She also says that nothing feels right without you and that the hole left when she tried to rip you out left too much room for depression.

The first line says ‘I love you’ and later she writes that she’s been trying to find a word for what ‘this’ is. It gives you hope.

You forgive her, of course.

In the next two years you find ways of sneaking kisses and cuddles out of her, and each time she pulls away you wonder if she’s forgotten about what she wrote.

Sometimes, when you’re alone and feeling really dark you wonder if she knew exactly how to get to you by alluding to your feelings. You think she may have purposely done it to make you come crawling back, she never had any intention of going somewhere with it.

You’re both a little sadistic, but you hope more than anything that she’s just afraid.

So again, you wait.

But as the time goes on you forget the reasons why you’re waiting, and why things don’t matter, and just _why_ all of this has gone on for so long.

The clock in your homeroom is ticking closer each day until she gets her acceptance to Princeton, or NYU, or Berkeley, wherever she wants to go because she’s wonderful and will get anything she wants. The clock is ticking closer to that, but also to the last time you’ll see her for months, and the last time you’ll see her _ever_.

So you give up, you throw your guilt and your doubt and your existential lesbian dread out the window and grasp her thin wrist with your hand.

You’re the last two in the room so you shut the door and tell her you love her.

Before she can respond in a way you both know isn’t correct you explain to her what that means, you’re in love with her, you want her, you’ll never let go if she lets you. Then you kiss her, just to be certain she knows.

Your lips are dry and your whole body is trembling, but the kiss still ignites sparks throughout your whole body and you hope she feels the same and she’s just really good at not letting it show.

As it turns out she does.

She kisses you back, and holds you close. You feel both of your pounding heartbeats when she pressed you together, through your thick sweater and her smart pea coat.

You’re eighteen when you realize your best friend is in love with you.


End file.
